


Promise in the Dark

by fergusandmarsali (thetranquilteal)



Series: Outlander Soundtrack [2]
Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Book 5: The Fiery Cross, Canon - Book, Canon Compliant, F/M, Flashbacks, Fraser's Ridge, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mental Health Issues, Missing Scene, Nightmares, Past Sexual Abuse, Tea Drinking, grounding exercises, resources in end notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:40:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29331702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetranquilteal/pseuds/fergusandmarsali
Summary: On the darkest of nights, Fergus Fraser’s scars come back to haunt him and, this time around, Marsali isn’t going to let him walk the often cold and treacherous path alone. A book!canon compliant one-shot set at Fraser’s Ridge.Soundtrack: Nightlight by ILLENIUM ft. Annika Wells
Relationships: Fergus Fraser/Marsali McKimmie Fraser
Series: Outlander Soundtrack [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1583632
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Promise in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> _At a distance of six inches, the shape of the mark was clear; it was an oval, carrying within it smudged shapes that must have been letters. [...] I had seen something like it only once before, and that wound freshly inflicted, while this had had some time to heal. But the mark of a brand is unmistakable. - Claire Fraser in Dragonfly in Amber (Diana Gabaldon)_

Fergus woke up with a gasp.

Remnants of his dream played in his mind as he gripped the sweat soaked sheets beneath him and struggled to regain his breath.

_ Being pinned down on the bed. _

_ The pain as the Englishman moved inside of him. _

_ Crying out for help. _

_ The smell of his flesh burning. _

He took a deep breath and purposefully tried to think of something else. Anything else. Anything-

_ Lallybroch. _

_ Sitting and drinking by the fire. _

_ The taste of cold ale on his tongue. _

_ The sound of merriment filling each and every space. _

He continued listing things he loved about living in the Scottish highlands and was relieved to find it working. But with the calmness of his mind came the realisation that the rest of his body was still reeling. His skin was still plastered with sweat, his hair stuck to the sides of his face and his body was shaking. His cock was hard and throbbing, he realised belatedly, and he let out a pained whine and turned his face into the pillow beneath him to muffle the sound - or to cut off his air supply, perhaps. He didn't know. 

He also didn't care.

He hadn’t reacted that way at the time. He was sure. He was- He had been too young, too distressed, to react in such a way. But now- How he could possibly- He didn’t-

"Fergus?"

His entire body froze at the sound. 

_ Merde _ . So trapped in his nightmare, he had completely forgotten Marsali, unbelievable as it was. He opened his eyes and turned to look at her in the dim light, his movements sluggish, a stark contrast to the air returning to his lungs. She was propped up on one elbow and pushing her wayward hair out of her face with sleepy frustration that he normally found endearing. This time, though, he couldn’t get away fast enough.

“Go back to sleep,  _ ma chérie _ .” His voice was hoarse and he pushed back the blankets and rose from the bed without waiting for an answer, afraid that she might do something - like touch him - while he was in this state.

The erection between his legs hadn’t yet subsided and the feeling of his night clothes brushing against his skin was unbearable, more so than the vulnerability of being completely naked. He stripped as he stepped outside and made his way to the water trough.

He plunged his hand into the freezing cold water and scooped up some water. He gasped when it hit his face. It was freezing cold but he felt all the more awake for it and he reached blindly for the small pale hanging on the nearby post and submerged it for as long as he could bear. Supporting it with his other arm, he raised his face to the stars and tipped its contents over himself. A shudder ran through him as his skin reacted to the temperature but he simply scooped up more water again and again until his actions became less rushed. Less desperate. 

More controlled.

He heard the creak of the doorframe behind him but didn’t bother turning around. He knew who it was just as he knew that she was no threat to him. Not like-

_ I’m at Fraser’s Ridge _ , he reminded himself as he continued to bath himself.  _ A grown adult. With a loving wife. And two wonderful children _ . 

_ Their names are Germain and Joan.  _

_ We’re at Fraser’s Ridge.  _

_ We’re safe here.  _

_ I am safe here.  _

Finally content with his ablutions and the subsequent control over his body, he turned to Marsali and wasn't at all surprised to be wrapped in a towelling cloth. Her touch was gentle, similar to the one she used when caring for the babies, and anger at her for treating him as such bubbled in his chest, fighting with the nausea that had nestled in his throat. Then he remembered. She wasn't treating him so because of what had happened in France all those years ago. It wasn't possible.

Six days had passed and he was yet to tell her anything at all. 

The anger left almost as quickly as it had come but the nausea remained and he found he couldn’t look her in the eyes. He chose instead to study every other part of her as she continued ridding him of the droplets travelling his skin. In the time that he had left their bed she had tidied her hair enough to restrain it with a ribbon, he noticed. The shadows under her eyes spoke of little sleep over recent days - she had been tending to Joan multiple times a night and he knew his new habit of tossing and turning during the night hadn't been helping anything - and he was overtaken suddenly by a rush of guilt for causing her to lose even more. 

She slipped a fresh shirt over his head and swapped out the now damp towel for the smaller one she had slung over her shoulder.

“I shouldn’t have asked,” she said softly as she towelled off his hair, her voice carrying only so far as the distance between them. “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t pretend to not know what she was talking about. He could plead ignorance, he knew, and she would let him. She was kind like that, his Marsali. But she was smart, too, so much so that it would all be a pretence, a charade, and he respected her far too much to play that game. He shook his head. 

“Don’t apologise,” his voice was clearer than when he had first awoken but a thickness remained and he cleared his throat. “You have every right to ask. You’re my wife,” he added with a small smile. It dropped from his face almost instantly, too heavy for him to hold. He licked his lips instead. “I just… I had forgotten. That’s hard to believe, I know,” he laughed out loud, the sound maniacal even to his own ears and he quickly shut his mouth before he did something else - like vomit the meager contents of his stomach all over his and Marsali’s feet. He looked straight at her then, searching for something he couldn’t name in her eyes. “I can hardly believe it myself. How? How could I  _ forget _ ?” 

He felt moisture building in his eyes and he blinked quickly, fighting the panic he felt at losing control of his body for the second time that night with everything he had.

He swallowed hard. 

He had cried many tears over the years, he could admit, but it had been a long time since he had shed any over this. And maybe that was the problem.

He blinked again and Marsali was a step further away, the towel hanging loosely in her hand. His brow furrowed as he watched her lips, her words becoming clearer as they continued to move.

“...since leaving Scotland, sometimes I wonder if it’s all been a dream.” She smiled then and, by habit, his lips moved to mimic hers. “A good one, mind. I wouldnae change marrying you and having Germain and Joan fer anything.”

A gust of wind circled the house and he shuddered.

“‘Tis cold,” Marsali held out her hand to him. “Come inside where ‘tis warm.”

“ _ Non _ ," he was quick to answer, "I..” Lacking the words he needed to express himself he waved his hand around, gesturing in general to their backyard.

She studied him a moment and then nodded. “Alright. Take a seat on the bench out of the wind, at least.”

He did as directed and was rewarded with another smile for his efforts, smaller and rather strained this time. She didn’t sit down next to him as he expected, though, and he simply watched as she walked back inside quietly. 

He was still staring at the door when she walked back out.

He wasn’t quite sure how much time had passed but it certainly felt hardly long enough for her to gather two cups and the blankets she now carried under one arm but also like she had taken all the time in the world returning to him. He hadn’t moved the entire time, he realised, and the look on her face told him she had noticed that too.

She placed the two mugs beside him, in the middle of the bench, and shook out the blankets. She wrapped one around his shoulders before doing the same for herself and sat down on the other side. She looked up and smiled at him. She nodded downwards and he followed her gaze to find one of the mugs being offered to him and he accepted it, propping it on his forearm for stability. The heat emanating from it burned his skin but after a while the feeling dissipated as he thawed out. He lifted it closer and took in a deep breath. Milady came to mind and he pictured the room where she hung what Milord called her ‘wee herbs’ to dry. 

Curiosity piqued, he asked “What tea is this?”

“Thyme,” Marsali took a sip from her own mug and smiled to herself. “My Mam always said it was good fer nightmares. Good fer courage, too.” She glanced at him with a shadow of a smirk on her lips. “I added the lemon and honey. Didnae think I could drink it otherwise.”

She was lying and they both knew it. It was him that was particular about the tea he drank and he relaxed in the knowledge she was willing to make fun of him even if it was in an overly gentle fashion. He took a sip and smacked his lips. “Perhaps if you drink enough of it, you’ll have the courage to drink it plain.”

His response lacked any of the usual passion behind their banter, the kind that usually lead to stolen kisses during the day and smiles that left their cheeks aching in the night. Still, she played along.

“Aye. Perhaps I will.”

They sat there, side by side, without touching for a while longer and by the time his mug was almost empty he'd relaxed enough to lean back against the wall behind him.

It had been so innocuous, her initial question. She had approached him from behind, crawling across the bed on her knees to where he was sitting on the edge, bent over to pick up his breeches from where they had fallen and now he thinks that perhaps it was because of the morning light it had caught her eye.  _ 'How did you come to get that scar?' _ she had asked and, while she might not have noticed him briefly pausing in his movements, there had been no missing him jumping away when she had brushed a hand against his long branded skin.

He should have been more surprised that it had taken her three years to ask it, he supposed. She was naturally curious and never one to shy away from seeking information she was determined to gather. But she had never actively sought the details of his youth despite knowing that he had been born in a brothel and made his living picking pockets until Milord had taken him in. 

And then he had gone and ruined  _ everything _ by going with the Englishman. That was the worst part, perhaps. That he had gone.

_ Willingly _ . 

“I…” he licked his lips and tried to ignore the way Marsali straightened in her seat, knowing that if he so much as glanced at her he would never get the words out. That they would stay buried under the mound of guilt that often threatened to bury him alive, make him suffer for all that he had caused. “I’ve…”  _ Merde _ . Why was it so hard? He sighed in frustration and tipped the rest of his tea into his mouth in the hope it might cleanse his tongue. He tried again. “I’ve seen things. As a boy in Paris. I’ve seen things. Things I hope Germain - and Joan - will never come to see.”  _ Or experience _ , the voice in his head added unhelpfully. 

“You’ve been very protective of the children,” Marsali commented rather nonchalantly, more an observation rather than an accusation. He watched her picking at a loose thread on her blanked in the corner of his eye. “I thought perhaps Da being bit by that snake had prompted ye so.” 

Having Germain, and now Joan, had brought up a fierce protectiveness within him and it had come full force this past week, that was true. It was also true that she was giving him an out - intentionally or not. He didn’t take it though, as tempting as it may be. Instead he began to tell her about that day in Paris when he had accompanied Milord to Maison Elise. How he had been mistaken for one of her employees. How he had voiced his protests. And been pressured to acquiesce despite it all. 

Throughout it all, his voice was flat. As though reading a script for a play, one that he wasn’t interested in but forced to endure again and again, awake or in sleep, and he had seen it so many times now he could recite it verbatim. 

For the first time since he had started his monologue, he fumbled for words.

He hadn’t ever had to say it out loud, he realised. He’d only ever had this discussion once, with Milady, years ago now, and even then he hadn’t said the words out loud. He had torn his breeches. And she had seen. She had known what it was and hadn’t made him describe what he did. How he did it. With-

“-a ring," he explained. "He had a ring. A signet ring with his initials. When he was- When he was holding me down he must have heated it with a flame for when he pressed it against my skin it burned.” The scar on his buttock itched from the memory and he lost track of his words. “It wasn’t… It wouldn’t-” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and blinked away the fog that he hadn’t realised was solidifying in his mind. “It wouldn’t have been so bad. All that had happened until then? I could have bore it. But when he pressed it against my skin I cried out. Milord, he heard me and came running in. He hit the Englishman in the face. He challenged him to a duel.”

He risked a glance at Marsali then.

She was horrified, he could tell and he knew then and there he would never tell her the rest of it. How he had not only been born in a brothel, as she knew, but also grew up to service clients on occasion leading up to that point. How it was his fault Milord had been arrested and taken to the Bastille. 

His fault that Milady miscarried their child.

Marsali's father, Simon MacKimmie, had been a violent man, he knew, but until their departure on the Voyager she had led a relatively sheltered life free from the darker side. A side that featured things like torture, sexual slavery. Forced amputation. She had come to witness some things since leaving Scotland that had broadened her understanding of the world, yes, but just like he wanted to protect their children from the darkness he knew so intimately he wished to protect her too.

There was also a fire in her eyes, he noticed now, and it made him wary. It crossed his mind that she might rebuke him for his words. For keeping her awake at night over something that had happened decades ago. 

For him letting it happen in the first place. 

Confirm what he had known all along, perhaps. That, like the loss of his hand, the brand burned into his flesh was punishment for his past sins. Sins that could never be forgiven.

“What happened to him? This Englishman?”

It took him a moment to process her words and he answered with fact rather than emotion. “Milord killed him. On the battlefield at Culloden.”

She nodded slowly, thinking that over, her jaw tight and her fingers clenched tight around her mug. 

“Weel,” she said after a while. She lifted her head and jutted out her jaw in that way that was so uniquely  _ her _ he felt a tug in the corner of his mouth. “A fitting end fer an unforgivable bastard.” Silence followed her statement and he turned to look at her fully. Her features softened in the moonlight as she looked back at him although the fire in her eyes remained, flames glittering with barely restrained emotion. “We cannae… we cannae do anything to change the past. I ken that. And Da has already taken care of the Englishman. So.” She studied him intently. “So… all that’s left is tae look after yer health and, as Mother Claire says, that starts wi’ getting some rest. Some  _ proper  _ rest.” 

Despite her words she didn’t move. 

They sat there for a while longer, the night air disturbed only by her listing out loud things to do come daylight and not for the first time that week he wondered how he came to have someone so amazing in his life. Agree to be his  _ wife _ , of all things.

Sensing a shift in the atmosphere, he brought his attention back to her words.

“You’re a good man, Fergus Fraser,” she rested her hand on the space between them, palm upwards. He didn't hesitate to reach out and place his hand in hers. “A good father.” She caught his gaze and she smiled at him in a way that had him desperately blinking away the moisture in his eyes. She threaded her fingers through his and squeezed firmly. “And a good husband.”

Her touch centred him, brought him back to solid ground, and he exhaled all that he had been holding tight. Together they stood purposefully and made their way back inside. The link between them… 

It was a promise in the dark.

**Author's Note:**

> [Living Well](https://www.livingwell.org.au/): If you are a man who has been sexually abused in childhood or assaulted as an adult, or are a partner, family member or friend, know that information and support to live well is available.
> 
> [Helplines, Suicide Hotlines and Crisis Lines Around The World](https://www.therapyroute.com/article/helplines-suicide-hotlines-and-crisis-lines-from-around-the-world): Calling a helpline, crisis line, and or a suicide hotline is a great way to be heard and get sound advice on how to approach your problems. When help is needed, this is an excellent place to start.


End file.
